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Viewing Single Post From: Laisse tomber les filles
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throw that pussy like i'm famous
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Rhory could feel a globule of blood-gum spread between her fingers as they squirmed their way back into the pocket’s maw. She let in a weak gasp when she met the gruesome resistance again. It was a wooden feeling, hard and hollow, but unmistakably flesh. She could feel the stony contours of the muscle as her fingers delicately struggled downward. She remembered seeing the girl (no, it, meat) in those ridiculous cheer uniforms, flashing these very thighs, flexing and writhing under now unmalleable skin, now just this little blonde hunk of rot, and her hand was in to her knuckles now, and she noticed the smell for the first time and to her horror it wasn’t so revolting, just familiar now, putrescine and cadaverine soaked into her nails and hair and skin as a stench that would follow her even if (when) she gets out of this and her fingertips finally touched something, something solid, smooth, something-

She ripped her hand out from the girl’s jeans as the voice boomed from outside, tearing the pocket and sliding more putty blood onto her right hand. Her left was clutching at her hair, elbow covering her face in some half-assed defense. Her breath came back shaky and shallow. She grabbed on to the edge of a mirror pane with a slippery hand and stumbled upwards. As she managed to finally ease her trembling legs (don’t try to tell yourself it’s lack of food, honey, it’s lack of balls) she carefully stretched over the corpse and treaded lightly down the hall, twisted her way out of her blind mental path towards the brighter halls, trying to find a mirror that reflected her new menace. She inched silently, her chest constricting at the slightest misstep or sound. She peered intently at every mirror, hoping for an opportune angle. Most only granted her deformed self-portraits. Even the disfiguring funhouse glass could show her how pathetic she looked, flat against the opposite walls, spraying foggy breath all over the mirrors her right cheek was pressed towards. Finally, one close to the entrance offered a view. Though seriously warped she could make out a blonde-mopped wall of a figure just outside the entrance, holding something long and gray out towards the hall.

It was a very, very large gun.

Rhory threw herself back against the mirror-wall, breath absent again. She was paralyzed for several taffy-stretched moments. Terrified that he might have heard or seen or otherwise sensed her presence. How did he know she was here? Her bag was out there, that she knew, but the entrance was littered with the pilfered possessions of three Meats anyway. There was no way he could be able to tell if the trail her little tryst with Evelyn Reed left was fresh, right? Of course not. There was no way he knew for sure she was in here. He was bluffing, being overcautious or overzealous or overeager. Maybe spouting cop-drama clichés at air made him feel better about his tiny prick.

But he had a gun. A big, big fucking gun. She hadn’t stayed alive for the past week by dicking around with people that had big guns. She needed out, and fast, before he decided to come find her himself or before her legs collapsed under their fear-weight. There had to be a back door. At the very least, there had a corner to hide in until He-Man became bored of the hunt. She’d become accustomed to dark corners, anyway. They were turning out to be her field of expertise.

She gulped air as quietly as she could manage. Carefully, deliberately, she began to retrace her steps to the darker reach of the hall.
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Laisse tomber les filles · Hall of Mirrors